


in between

by lilith747



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Betrayal, Child Soldiers, Crack Fic, Family, Found Family, Gen, No beta we die like jschlatt, Non-Graphic Violence, Protective Toby Smith | Tubbo, can you guys tell i wrote this at three am, mentions of manipulation, no romantic relationships, non graphic depictions of injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:47:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29514834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilith747/pseuds/lilith747
Summary: Technoblade would never call Tubbo his family. Nowhere close. They weren’t allies, nor enemies, but rather something in between.A crack-fic turned relationship study between Tubbo and Technoblade.[Set after the final disc war]
Relationships: Toby Smith | Tubbo & Technoblade, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Technoblade & TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, TommyInnit & Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 101





	in between

**Author's Note:**

> hey besties!! i may or may not have done this at three am and barely edited it but it’s alr. sort of based off of that one tumblr post abt techno being the only one to think that tubbo is evil incarnate, but like, a n g s t 
> 
> set after the final disc war, but instead of dream going to prison and that whole thing, they have a regular battle and tubbo and tommy barely make it out alive with the discs. 
> 
> do NOT take this as a ship fic cause that is disgusting and you know where the door is if you were expecting that. every interaction between tubbo and tommy is PLATONIC (and every other interaction)
> 
> also this is my first work on here so comments and kudos are highly appreciated :)))

The feeling of a knife slicing through potatoes was familiar to Technoblade, almost nice. It was all he had been living off of for the past six months, in his cottage in the snow, so far north that it reminded him of his days at the south pole. Whenever Phil came around, he’d bring himself to find some steak, or at least other vegetables, but when he was alone, he was perfectly content with his potatoes. 

But he wasn’t alone this time. Instead of Phil, Tubbo sat across the cottage from him, reclining, albeit somewhat uncomfortably, on his couch. He ditched the suit he wore when he ruled L’Manburg, opting for the usual green button down and jeans. He didn’t know why Tubbo decided jeans were a good choice to wear when fighting Dream, but he couldn’t judge, considering what Techno tended to wear. 

Tubbo’s face was streaked with ash, his clothes ripped from close calls with a sword, and dried blood caking his hairline. Tommy looked far worse for wear, with his signature red and white shirt completely stained with blood from a knife wound that was now bandaged, and bruises that most likely wouldn’t leave for weeks. Thin scars littered his body, most of which weren’t from his most recent battle. His eyes were closed, but Techno knew that they’d shine a steely grey instead of the bright blue he had grown accustomed to. He didn’t know when thy began to dim, but he figured it was probably one of the cold nights in Pogtopia, begging Wilburs not to destroy the last place he called home. 

He pushed down the thoughts of him and his father doing the exact same thing, leaving Tommy with no family members left who hadn’t fucked him over. 

The kid was completely passed out, his head laying on Tubbo’s lap where the older carefully carded his fingers through Tommy’s hair. His soft snores were the only noise in the room, save for the occasional mob and the knife against the cutting board. 

Technoblade brought his attention back to the potatoes, the rhythmic slicing motion grounding his thoughts. The voices were still quiet, reeling from when Tubbo and Tommy showed up on his doorstep, bruised and bloody. Tommy was passed out by then, and Techno didn’t waste time wondering how a 5’ 7 “ kid carried Tommy across the Tundra, more focused on quelling the voices that called for someone’s blood; anyone’s blood. Tubbo’s blood. 

“He trusts you, you know?” Techno didn’t bother to look up at the words being spoken. “He doesn’t like sleeping in front of people he doesn’t trust. So I guess he trusts you again.” 

He bristled, because of course he knows, Tommy’s his brother. It had taken him almost six months to be able to sleep through the night when Phil first picked him up when he was 9, and he still never liked the vulnerability that came with it up until Techno had left their childhood home. 

Although it was a last choice, and he knew that Tommy would be back to screaming and yelling about betrayal the next day, letting himself fall asleep in Techno’s house was an olive branch. A show of trust. One he probably didn’t deserve. He knew that. Tubbo knew it too. 

“I suppose I have to trust you too, then? Even if you blew up my country?” He says the word ‘my’ as if it was a challenge instead of the truth, testing to see what Techno would do. 

It was never really his country in the first place. Both of them knew that. 

“You don’t have much of a choice,” Techno replied dryly. 

“Always bailing us out of trouble, hm? Just like when Tommy and I were kids.”

The comment throws him off, the sudden throwback to their history, so he ignores it, staying silent. 

Tommy would always be his brother. From when Phil first brought him home, to the Antarctic Empire and Business Bay, to Pogtopia, and to their most recent betrayals, Tommy and Techno would always be brothers. Family. 

Tommy would understand why Techno did what he did, someday.

Tubbo was not his family. Techno may have watched him grow up, from the small, malnourished ten year old to the scrawny 14 year old. He may have saved both his and Tommy’s asses countless times, from getting in trouble with Phil to the village council. He may have taken time out of his day to go over the books Tubbo was assigned in school, patient as he struggled his way through a sentence, determined to be able to read as well as the rest of his class. But they weren’t family. 

They had barely spoken in Pogtopia, when Tubbo was a skittish 16 year old, relaying information from Schlatt to Wilbur. From one mentally unstable man to another. From one tyrant to another. He had heard the faint cries emitting from Tommys room, whenever the stress of the job he was forced into became too much, but he never mentioned it. 

And when Tubbo was standing in that concrete box before him, scared out of his mind, eyes still holding an ounce of trust, trust that Technoblade wouldn’t shoot him, they weren’t family. And when Techno raised his weapon, feeling the power that came with it, knowing that this wasn’t going to be a normal respawn, knowing that this was one of his Soul Deaths, they weren’t family. When he apologized, promising to make it as painless and as colorful as possible, when he pulled the trigger, the voices drowing out the screams of the crowd as he turned on them, they weren’t family. 

But they weren’t enemies either. Although Techno had taken his second life, something no one should have to go through at that age, Tubbo had forgiven him. When he watched as Techno and Tommy fought in the pit (the former trying to curb the voices that were telling him to hurt his brother and make him bleed), begging Tommy to just let it go, they weren’t enemies. 

When Tubbo and his gang of tyrants had hunted him down, bringing him out of his newfound peace, threatening to burn the same house that he stood in now, they weren’t enemies. 

When Technoblade had stood above him, on a jagged piece of stone, looking out at a wasteland that used to be something beautiful, holding the same crossbow, wearing the same cloak, spawning the same withers, they weren’t enemies. 

Tubbo was always a little odd, he supposed. He always had a glint in his eye that no one else noticed, saying “i know something you don’t,” but still somehow looking so stupidly innocent. It was the same blank look he wore now, his hand raking through Tommys hair fondly, with a small smile. It always made Techno feel...unsettled. 

He wore the same look when Techno had escaped the execution stage after dying and being roughly forced back into the mortal plane, courtesy of the golden Totem of Undying. Whereas Quackity looked enraged and Fundy looked confused, Tubbo had the same blank, yet amused look and small smile he always did, almost like he knew what was going to happen. 

“You don’t wanna break that trust again. It wouldn’t go so well for you, Technoblade,” Tubbo said lightly. 

Techno didn’t know what the fuck that even meant. “Is that a threat?” He asked, keeping his voice even. Not many people called him by his full name, save for his enemies. Everyone he knew personally called him Techno, finding that the three syllables were too much. Tubbo never called him anything but his full name, his title.

“Maybe.”

He glanced at the gleaming netherite sword on the counter beside him, counting how many steps it would take to get to Tubbo. Even without the weapon, he was sure he could probably snap the kid in half. “I could kill you, you know?” Maybe he would go for the easier option of throwing the knife in his hand. He wouldn’t even need to leave his spot by the counter. 

“Technoblade,” he hummed, staring. “You can’t kill me in a way that matters.” The smile on his face grew, barely, and he went back to focusing on Tommy. 

Techno went back to slicing his potatoes.

**Author's Note:**

> omg ty for reading all the way down!! leave a comment to let me know what u think :)))


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